Weak Link
by literary deviant
Summary: When Reid is kidnapped by someone who wants revenge on Hotch, the team will have to profile the kidnapper, while trying to convince a guilt-ridden Hotch that this isn't his fault. But with Gideon away and Elle still in the hospital, can they find him in time when they're three agents down?


**A/N:** So, I know I have a lot of In-Progress stories right now. But I _WILL_ finish them (I'm almost done with the next chapter of _Dance Amongst Daggers_ , and should be posting it soon) and I couldn't resist posting this once I finished typing it up. So, _Weak Link_ takes place in very early season 2, during the four months in between _The Fisher King, Part Two_ and _P911._ It's during the time when Elle is recovering from being shot. So: spoilers! Not many, if at all, in this chapter. Vague mentions of the episodes _The Fisher King_ and _Somebody's Watching_.

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

* * *

It was the unlocked door that first alerted him.

Anyone else would have dismissed it, would have shrugged it off as simply _thinking_ they recalled locking the door behind them, when really they hadn't. But Reid's memory was pristine, unflawed, and he remembered locking the deadbolt that morning just as clearly as he remembered everything else - perfectly.

There should be no reason for his door to be unlocked. He was the only one with a key, there were no spares hidden anywhere, and he hadn't given one to anyone else. His apartment door had been locked when he left for work this morning, of that he was one hundred and five point five percent sure.

But it was unlocked now. And that fact - that one, dismissable fact - was what made Reid hesitate with his hand on the doorknob, his other hand hovering over his hip where his gun was holstered.

Someone was in - or had been in - his apartment.

His ears strained to hear something, but the inside seemed quiet. Reid held his breath as he slowly turned the metal knob on the door, and his grip tightened around the handle of his gun. He pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room was still.

He nudged the door closed with his foot, and began to immediately grope for the light switch on the wall. He found it and frantically flicked it up, eager to be out of this darkness.

The lights remained off and the room remained dark - the power was dead.

"Dammit," Reid swore uncharacteristically under his breath. His heart pounded almost painfully against his ribs, and his breathing quickened. It looked like the shadows were bending and reaching out to him, and he willed himself not to panic. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the lack of light.

Everything appeared to be in place. Nothing was missing, or looked as if it had been moved or touched. The apartment was clean and organized, just as it had been that morning. It didn't have the appearance of a place that had been broken into.

Was he simply being paranoid?

Still, the door had been unlocked. Someone had been here.

Reid drew his gun, but kept it lowered. His hands were sweaty and shaking, and his fingers fumbled so they were poised on the trigger. He crept forward, careful to be silent.

It reminded him of the serial stalker case in L.A. when he had searched the house for Maggie Lowe, his gun at the ready. But he had been protecting Lila then. Somehow, the fact that he was protecting someone else had made the situation less terrifying. Now, he was only protecting himself.

He turned the corner and stood in the doorway of the bedroom, glancing around the small space. Once again, nothing had been disturbed.

And suddenly he felt the cold barrel of a gun being pressed to the back of his head, and Reid went completely still.

"Don't move," a deep voice ordered. "Move, and I shoot."

His breathing stopped. His body felt ice cold with fear. He wondered if the man's voice actually sounded as scary as it seemed, or if that was just his own terror amplifying it.

"Put your weapon on the ground," the man ordered. His voice was flat.

Reid licked his lips. He was finding it hard to think passed the fog of fear that clouded his mind. He had found that sometimes dangerous situations caused him to think clearer, like when confronting the Fisher King. But other times they caused him to freeze.

This was one of those times.

"I said _drop it_ ," the man growled. He butted Reid's head with the end of the gun for emphasis.

He didn't want to. But he didn't really want a bullet to the brain either. Slowly, he bent down and set his gun on the floor, feeling the target painted on him the whole while.

He immediately felt the weapon's absence. Guns had never really appealed to him; he had never been too comfortable with the feel of a gun in his hand, could never aim one with the same confidence and surety that Hotch or Morgan or Gideon could. But the feeling of the metal pressing into his hand had given him a sense of protection, and now that felt stripped from him.

"Kick it away," the man ordered. Reid was trembling, but he did what was asked of him, using his foot to slide the gun away from him across the floor.

Reid's throat was tight, and he swallowed, trying to regain his voice. "W-who are y-you?"

Was that him that had spoken? That voice had sounded too small and too stuttering to be his own.

"Who I am isn't of importance right now, Dr. Reid."

Reid's breath caught in his throat, which the man didn't fail to notice.

"Yes, Agent, I know your name," he said. "I know the names of all your team members, but as I said, that is of little importance. What matters is what happens _next_."

The young man swallowed. His throat was extremely dry. "And . . . what ha-happens next?"

" _That_ is entirely up to you," said the man. "You have two choices: you can comply, and come with me willing. Or I can use force. Whichever you prefer."

I'd prefer neither to be honest, Spencer thought.

He pressed his lips together, and quickly ran through his options. There weren't many. There was a gun aimed at the back of his head, and his own weapon laid feet away out of reach. His cellphone was in his front pocket, but there was no way he could use it to call for help without the man seeing.

He eyed his gun off in the corner, wondering if he could be quick enough to grab it before the man got a shot in. It was risky, but then again; this man was looking to kidnap him. Which meant he needed him for something. So even if he did fire at him, he wouldn't fire to kill.

"All right," said Reid. "I'll come with you." He tried to sound resigned.

"Smart choice." The gun was lowered from his head.

"I know," said Reid, and he immediately spun to the right, diving for his gun. He slid across the floor, and his shoulder impacted with the wall. He snatched his gun off the ground, scrambled to his feet, and quickly raised to aim -

 _Bang!_

The pain hit him first, not the sound. The bullet ripped through his leg to the bone, and with a cry of pain he fell back against the wall, clutching the bloody hole in his right pant leg, just above his knee.

Blood flowed from the wound. The gun fell from Spencer's grip. He pressed his hands against the wound, and red seeped between his fingers.

The world spun and everything was a blur of bright colors. He looked at his shooter, and tried to focus on his face, but his features were undistinguishable in the dark, and his blurring vision caused them to distort.

His leg was on fire. He'd never been shot before, and he knew that it would hurt, but _god_. How could a tiny piece of metal cause so much damage?

His vision was darkening. He allowed his head to sag against the wall, and he heard the man's voice, as if from a distance.

"I warned you. You could have complied. You had a choice."

The grip he had on his leg slackened. His sight went dark.

"This could have ended a completely different way."

His eyes slipped closed.

* * *

Aaron Hotchner, despite popular opinion, was very much a family man.

Anyone who didn't know him personally, who knew him only professionally or by reputation, would never have guessed. At the Bureau, he was widely known as a drill sergeant of a unit chief with little to no sense of humor. A man who was completely married to his work, despite the wife and son he had waiting for him at home.

What they didn't know, couldn't possibly know, was that every minute spent surrounded by cases of murder and violent assault, was every minute that he spent longing to return to his family, willing Haley's heart and Jack's innocence to erase the images of crime scenes seared into his mind.

Every picture that popped up on the screen, every case file that made its way across JJ's desk. In the victims, he saw them. In every young woman, he saw Haley. In every small child, he saw Jack's face. In every corpse, in every dead body, he saw them. His family.

They were his home, the only light in the sea of dark that he immersed himself in every day. He performed his job to the best of his ability, but Haley and Jack came first, always. Because without them to come home to each night, he didn't know how he would deal with the things this job entailed, the disturbed and twisted things he dealt with on a daily basis.

He cherished every moment they spent together; memorized the sight of Haley's smile, the sound of Jack's laugh.

Which was why he hated the fact that it was late on a Friday night, and he sat in his office alone going over paperwork, instead of where he should be, which was with his family.

It had been a long day; another case, another crime scene, another UnSub. The case had been a grueling one, one where, once again, they had taken the UnSub into custody, but for many of the victims it had been far too late. And those losses, those _failures_ , weighed heavily on their hearts as always. They had headed home to sleep it off, leaving their unit chief in the quiet and solitude of his office, to tie up all the loose ends.

Hotch didn't mind, most of the time. He didn't fault them for having their own lives to go home to. They needed something to fall back on, when all the stress and emotional turmoil that came with the job threatened to overwhelm them. It was always Hotch who stayed to deal with the aftermath, who didn't always have the luxury of going home late at night to his family.

But that was alright. He knew the responsibilities that came with this job. And he accepted them readily. Even if it meant getting less personal time than the rest of the team.

The sound of his phone vibrating loudly against the wood of the desk interrupted the report of the case he was filing - five girls, their throats slashed and found submerged in a lake, in the space of two weeks - and Hotch picked up the cellphone, glancing at the ID quickly enough to identify the caller.

The brightly lit screen flashed the name _Haley_ in blinking white letters, and the Unit Chief frowned as he flipped it open to answer the call.

"Haley?" he questioned his wife. The usual brisk tone he used when answering a work call was absent, replaced by confusion. He'd told her he would be working late tonight. "What is - "

 _"Aaron."_ Her frantic voice on the other end of the line immediately silenced him. It put the fear of God in him, because he had heard that tone of voice way too often in his career, and he had never wanted to hear it from her. _"Oh my God, Aaron - I don't know what - "_

"Okay, Haley - Haley!" Aaron tried to calm her down, despite the fact that her panicked breathing on the other line made his heart beat out of his chest. "Haley, I need you to calm down, alright? Can you do that for me?"

There was a tense second, where only the sound of Haley's labored breathing was audible. _"O-okay,"_ she said finally, shakily. _"I'm alright. I-I'm calm."_

Hotch sincerely doubted that, but he didn't press her. "Haley, what happened? Are you and Jack alright?"

 _"Wha-? Oh."_ Her tone softened as realization came upon her as to what he must have thought, as she sensed the raw fear in his voice. _"Oh, Aaron, no. Jack's fine. I'm fine. Jack's fast asleep in his bed, I just checked on him five minutes ago."_

The reassurance in her voice ceased his panic, and his heart rate returned to normal. They were fine. They were safe.

He frowned. "Then what happened?" Why was she so upset?

The hysteria reentered her voice, at the reminder at why she called. _"I didn't mean - I was just checking my e-mail, and it appeared in my inbox. I-it said it was for you, and I didn't understand why someone would send it to my e-mail, and not yours - I was curious, so . . . so I opened it. And - and -"_

"Haley," pressed Hotch. "Haley, what was it, what was in the e-mail? What did it say?"

A strangled breath came from the other line. _"I . . . I can't. Just - you'll have to look yourself, because - God, I can't - "_

There was a click as she hung up the phone, and the dial tone sounded. Hotch remained there for a moment, with his phone held to his ear, before snapping it closed. With a heavy heart, he removed his laptop from the inside of his desk, and quickly set about logging into his wife's e-mail account.

 _Email: haley_h_brooks_

 _Password: Depp1978_

Hotch shook his head at his wife's hopeless enamorment with Johnny Depp, but smiled slightly at the numbers tacted onto the end, which was the year that they had met. But the smile soon dropped from his face, as the server logged into Haley's inbox, displaying her most recent messages.

He scanned through the e-mails, most of which his wife had yet to read. There were a few from her sister Jessica, her friend Lisa, and an e-mail from the mother-and-son group that she and Jack regularly attended, confirming their next meeting.

And at the top, was an e-mail marked as being read, that couldn't have been sent more than hour ago. It was from an unknown address.

 _AGENT AARON HOTCHNER,_ the subject line read, _URGENT. OPEN IMMEDIATELY._

Lips pressed into a thin line, dreading what he would find, he dragged the cursor over the e-mail and clicked to open it. His screen was immediately filled by white, followed by two simple words.

Two words that set off alarm bells in Hotch's head and caused a sinking sensation to occur in his stomach.

There was an attachment, and he reluctantly opened it. It was a picture - a picture of someone very familiar. Reid, bound and gagged in a chair, head lolled to the side. Unconscious.

Ice chips crystallized in Aaron's veins. His heart froze in his chest. Not two hours ago, he had seen his subordinate. He had been exiting the jet, bidding his farewells as he headed home. And now . . . ?

Hotch's eyes dropped again to the two words on the screen. They were taunting, mocking him, accusing him. Two simple words, and they cut through him like a knife.

 _Missing something?_

* * *

 **A/N:** Review, please? Tell me what you thought? Thanks! :)


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